


Leading the Vast Army

by DaisyChainz



Series: Good Omens Ficlets [8]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Gen, Intimidation, Minor Injuries, Smoking, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyChainz/pseuds/DaisyChainz
Summary: The Crowley that met Witchfinder Lance Corporal  Shadwell in 1967 wouldn't recognize the Sergeant Shadwell that Aziraphale is about to be (rudely) introduced to.





	Leading the Vast Army

**Author's Note:**

> Shadwell sticks Aziraphale with a pin to test if he's a witch. Surprise, minor pain, no blood, and Aziraphale later uses it to his advantage.

In his younger years Private Shadwell, and then Lance Corporal Shadwell, was enthusiastic, a go-getter. And he was excellent at his job. He talked people out of information, he got leads. Even though people thought he was odd, they also thought him strangely charming. He usually got his way. 

When he met Crowley in 1967 he got his attention. He asked about witches, which took Crowley by surprise, but he found himself (briefly) intrigued by the "vast army" he was presented to his service. It didn't take Crowley many years to figure out that Shadwell was blowing smoke up his ass, but the man was useful so he kept up the charade. He even disappeared for a few years so he could reappear as Crowley Jr.

But Aziraphale didn't hit Shadwell's radar until the 1980's. By then he had, to put it kindly, lost a bit of his shine. He was still enthusiastic, to be sure. But he had become jaded, his vigor more coarse, his tongue less charming. It's easy to become a bit jaded when your 'vast' army had disintegrated to nothing. There never had been many witchfinders, but it had become just him: trapped forever at the level of Sergeant. 

Technically, Shadwell had always been a bit of a conspiracy theorist; usually fearing witches were involved in everything from tinkering with the food supply to creating crop circles. By the 80's he was much more likely to stand on corners yelling loudly, than he was to be whispering convincing words in anyone's ear. 

So the Shadwell that Aziraphale met was a far different creature than the one Crowley originally knew. 

Shadwell may not have been the silver-tongued devil of his youth, but he still had contacts. They were all teetering on death or retirement, but they hadn't given up on him just yet. 

He hadn't been living long in the apartment at Madame Tracy's, and was just beginning to suspect some of what she was really up to. So he simply gave her the stink-eye and the silent treatment when she cheerfully knocked on his door to let him know he had a phone call. 

She smiled and batted her eyes before she left him standing stonily in his doorway. After she was gone he stepped into the hallway and picked up the receiver. Her perfume clung to it and made his nose twitch. 

"Aye?"

"Shadwell?"

"This is Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell. What do yeh want?"

"This is Stockton. We worked together on that job North of London." 

Shadwell knew him as a fence. Not a bad one, either. "Aye. What do yeh want?"

"You said you wanted to know if anyone wanted to buy or sell anything, uh, witchy."

Shadwell perked up a bit. "Aye?"

"Well . . ."

"Spit it out, laddie!" Stockton was at least ten years older than Shadwell. 

"Someone is looking for a book by some witch. A, uh, Agnes Nutty?"

Shadwell froze. Could this be an actual lead? One that didn't involve four dozen papers and a string of disappointing phone calls? He was sick to death of everyone thinking he was a telemarketer. 

He took a breath to calm himself. No sense in getting worked up, in case it came to nothing. "Aye. What can yeh tell me?"

"That depends. My clients value their privacy Sergeant Shadwell. They wouldn't appreciate me just blabbing to any old one about their business."

Shadwell sighed. It was a good thing he had been to see that Crowley man's son recently. He didn't think he had enough of his own money to cover food, rent and information. 

"Aye, I'll make it worth your trouble."

"Fine. Come see me at the pub." And he rang off. 

Shadwell smacked his lips as he hung up the receiver. He could do with a pint, come to think of it.

*** ***

The pub was a specific location that was used as an underground meeting spot. It was always crowded, always noisy and everyone knew to mind their own damn business. 

Shadwell stepped further in and looked around. There were some familiar faces at the bar, but none were Stockton. Finally he spotted him in a booth towards the back. He made his way through the tightly packed tables and drinkers--first to the bar to order a pint, then to join the fence. 

Stockton was a short, frog-faced man, mostly bald. He looked up as Shadwell approached, sitting up at attention when he noticed him. Shadwell slid into the opposite booth. 

"So man, watcha got?"

Stockton looked at him expectantly, lips pressed together tightly. Rolling his eyes and sticking his cigarette between his lips, Shadwell reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. He slid it across the table. 

Stockton snatched it up and, looking around, shoved it into his own jacket. Then he leaned forward and spoke, "so I've got this client."

"Aye. So yeh said."

"Yes, yes. I've worked with him before. He's a rare book dealer. Always wants me on the lookout for first editions, signed copies, anything unusual."

"Aye."

Stockton leaned further forward, looking for all the world like a short, balding house wife about to dish some hot gossip. "So, he calls me, completely out of the blue last week. Wanting to know if I've seen this book by a witch. It's Agnes Nutter, by the way. I checked my notes."

Shadwell didn't need the clarification. He was familiar with the name, if not the specifics. "Aye. So, have yeh?"

Stockton looked affronted by the question. "What? No, of course not! You would know if I had!"

Shadwell held up his hands appeasingly. "All right, all right. No need to get your tail feathers in a bunch. What about this buyer, this book dealer was it?

"His name is Mr. A. Z. Fell, I've dealt with him for some years. He's completely above board, but he isn't afraid to use back channels to find what he's looking for. I've found him several signed, first editions of prophetic works."

"Prophetic works? Is he collecting them for a client, or himself?"

"I can't say for certain, but he does have an extensive personal collection. But he must make a lot of money selling something because his shop is rarely open to the public, and He always pays me very handsomely."

Shadwell squinted through the cigarette smoke, trying to decide if Stockton was complaining about his bribes. Finally, he decided it didn't matter. He paid what he paid and the fence kept calling him. 

"Where can I find this book dealer?"

*** **

A. Z. Fell and Co. was a quaint little shop in Soho, with burgundy doors and yellow columns. Shadwell lurked across the street for a while, casing it out like any other job. He wasn't young and nimble enough to work professionally anymore, but some of his escapades for the Army had kept his locksman skills sharp. 

True to Stockton's word, the shop was indeed closed; there were no posted hours and no number to call for an appointment. After seeing no signs of life, Shadwell crossed the street and tried to look like he was window shopping. Still no signs of movement. So he stepped into the alcove between the yellow columns and peered through the window of the doors. 

Finally, he glanced around. The street was busy, but people tended to walk quickly with their heads down, so no one took any notice of what he was up to. 

Ducking down and working quickly, Shadwell picked the lock and slipped inside. He closed the door with a gentle click, listening to make certain he was truly alone. 

The book shop was as quiet as a tomb. Good. He would hopefully have some time to look for anything incriminating before his target came home. 

The book shop seemed fairly normal, although Shadwell wasn't surprised. A witch--a true witch, not the flashy new-agers that knew less about magic than he did--would hardly stick grimoires on the shelves for public viewing. From the street he had seen there were rooms upstairs. He would check the shop carefully, but that was where he would likely find the incriminating evidence. 

After making his way through the popular fiction and the massive selection of Oscar Wilde editions, Shadwell turned his attention to the narrow staircase. Surprisingly, he found no lock between bookshop and flat. 

First, he checked the kitchen for signs of a cat. There were no food or water bowls, no empty cat food cans. He looked further and found no cat toys or any signs at all of a furry beast. 

Odd.

Odd, but by no means did it exonerate this A. Z. Fell.

He busily checked the books and objects in plain view, then quickly made his way through the usual hiding places. Under the couch cushions, behind the curtains, the mattress, the back of the closet, even the freezer. Nothing. Not a cache of witchy objects under the bed, nor a wall safe nestled behind a painting. 

He was just starting to tap on walls, searching for a priest's hole, when he heard movement downstairs. 

Good, he could move straight to the source. Checking his pockets for his instruments of war, Shadwell sat himself on the wide sofa to wait.

He was three cigarettes in and just beginning to wonder if he was going to have to join his prey downstairs--when he heard footsteps on wood. 

Shadwell sat on the couch, clouded in cigarette smoke, watching as A. Z. Fell entered the flat and primly and firmly closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath, put his back to the door, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Oh Good Lord." He muttered. Then, as Shadwell watched, he froze. It was the cigarette smoke, his nose was twitching. 

A. Z. Fell was almost exactly the way Shadwell pictured a rare book dealer would look. White hair, bow tie, prim expression. Even to Shadwell's rough eye, his clothes seemed beautifully made. 

He looked down his nose now at the Sergeant Witchfinder. "Excuse me." He sounded very proper, and like he was trying to politely hide his surprise and displeasure. In fact, Shadwell was certain he was; it was a common enough reaction when he visited people. 

"Excuse me." He repeated, slightly more loudly. "The bookshop is closed currently. And at any rate, this portion is a private residence. Most definitely not open to the public."

He remained with his back securely to the door, but his eyes followed Shadwell as he stood and meandered over to stand next to him. Shadwell eyeballed him a moment longer, then dropped his cigarette to the floor boards and crushed it with his heel. 

A. Z. Fell gaped at him. "What in Heaven's name do you think you're doing? That's my . . ."

Shadwell took a step closer and looked at him very closely. "I hear you're looking for a book. Witch." He added for emphasis. 

A. Z. Fell blinked and looked confused. "Which? Which book?"

Shadwell squinted, trying to decide how to play it; perhaps a little intimidation to start with. "The witchy one, of course. I hear you're searching, and I want to know why."

Fell pressed himself further against the door as Shadwell moved in. "I'm a rare and antique book seller. Of course I'm looking for a book."

"Aye, but what are yeh planning on doing with it? This, witchy book."

Still looking uncertain, but his shoulders relaxing just a tad, Fell answered. "I find books for clients, or add them to my own private collection."

"Oh really? And this particular one, would that be for a client or your," he paused and lowered his voice for emphasis, "private collection?"

Fell relaxed further, almost slumping with disappointment. "I'm afraid no one is doing anything with this book. You see, no copies of it are in existence anymore."

The book itself was irrelevant to Shadwell, other than keeping it out of the hands of the devil-worshippers. "Do yeh often call around looking for witchy books? Is this a hobby of yours? And do yeh have a cat? What's it's name?" He moved his hand down behind Fell's elbow. 

"What? Oh, uh, no. No cats with any names. Although they are dear creatures. So loving and . . . Sharp. As for the books, as I said, it's my profession. Although I do enjoy having my own . . . Ow! Did you just buss me?" Fell rubbed his elbow, looking puzzled and alarmed. 

Shadwell glanced down at his pin. The fabric of the jacket was too thick, the pin hadn't penetrated it. It must be getting dull. Just to be sure, he grabbed Fell's hand massaging his elbow and stabbed him directly. 

Fell jumped away, now cradling his hand. "Are you quite mad my dear fellow?"

Shadwell brandished the pin, advancing half a step as Fell retreated further into the room. "That's Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, I'll thank yeh. Now, I'm gonna ask yeh a question, and you'd best answer the truth." He tried to squint in an intimidating fashion. "Lest I feel it necessary to bring out the thumb screws."

Fell's eyes widened. "Witchfinder? Thumb . . . Thumbscrews?"

"Aye. Now, tell the truth." Shadwell poked as finger at him in time to his words. "How many nipples have yeh got?"

Fell looked completely confused. "What? I have only the two, although I completely fail to see how that's any of your business!"

"So you're telling me that yeh are no witch?"

There was a moment where they both stared at each other. "No." Fell finally said. "I can honestly say I am most certainly Not a witch." He rubbed the back of his hand where the pin had stuck him. 

Shadwell regarded him solemnly. "No, I suppose not. Yeh did pass my test. But," he waggled the finger at Fell. "Who are yeh supplying these witchy books to? Yeh may not be a witch, but yeh could still be in league with 'em."

"I can also assure you, there are no witches of my acquaintance, either." He looked like he wanted to add something, but pressed his lips together. 

Shadwell thought about what his next move should be. There only seemed to be one logical direction. 

"I've told yeh I'm Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, aye?"

"I believe you mentioned it." Fell seemed to collect himself with the sudden turn of the conversation. He smoothed out his jacket and straightened his bowtie. 

"Well, I'm a part of a vast organization that fights the impending tide of darkness. Witches lurk, waiting to devour souls and send 'em to Hell."

"Well, that sounds very dramatic. So you only came to my door today because you believed me to be a witch?"

"Aye. Why else would yeh want that witchy tome."

"I believe I have explained that thoroughly. But we now agree I am not?"

"Aye. But it had also come to my attention that yeh spend a great deal of time, and a great deal of money, searching for said books?"

"Well, yes. I suppose I do."

"Then yeh should consider having the services of the Witchfinder's Army. We have our own resources into the occult and supernatural."

Fell stood straight and proper, but he shifted slightly. "So please, allow me to clarify this situation. You break into my business, my home, you accost me with sharp objects and accusations of witchcraft. And now you have a business proposition for me?"

"Aye."

"I see."

"It's the smart move, Mr. Fell. My organization has a great reach. We see things, we hear things. Things that could be reported directly back to yeh. For a reasonable monthly fee." He pointed a finger for emphasis. "Yeh should be proud to know you're supporting an organization that protects the world from the evils of Satan and his worldly servants."

"Yes. Well . . . Ahem." Fell clasped his hand in front of him and chewed his lip for a moment. "Do I get a discount for the first six months?" He rubbed his injured hand pointedly. 

Shadwell hid his grin behind a scowl. "The first two months only. And paid upfront."

Fell nodded and extended his non-injured hand. "Then I suppose we have a deal Mr. Shadwell."

Shadwell shook his hand heartily. "That's Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell. If you don't mind. And the Armies of Light thank yeh for your sponsorship."


End file.
